


A Boy Named War

by witchkings



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Edoras, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt, M/M, post palanthir scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: In which Pippin pulling out the Palanthir does more damage than the hobbit could have imagined, Aragorn is devastated, and Legolas tires of picking up the pieces.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	A Boy Named War

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write about that scene, it just has so much angst potential. Based mostly on the movie version, hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> tws: allusions to self-harm, anxiety

The Palanthir out of sight, it took with it the turmoil, shouts and rushes of adrenaline, but left behind a definitive sense of dread. Heavy breaths filled the air, a veil of darkness covered the room. Eyes jumped about, met, glanced away. Hands trembled, lips quivered. Pippin’s cheeks were tear-stained and red. Gandalf had the energy of a tempest, about to flatten them all with its whiplashes and downpours, a rumble of thunder stuck in his throat. Merry scowled at his friend, battling the concern that threatened to extinguish the fire of his anger.

Legolas could relate to this, he felt a feral sort of fury claw at his insides, claw him apart as he noticed Aragorn hunched by his side, eyes fixed on the dusty ground. His blood boiled as his friend’s hands cramped up in his lap, and Legolas had trouble to recall that the hobbit was, factually speaking, but a child. Too young to understand what he had unleashed upon them, too foolhardy to see beyond his own curiosity. And now, Aragorn had to suffer for it.

Legolas itched to say something, words of comfort perhaps, or to give his anger voice, wanted to wrap his arms around his beloved and soothe him with a song, but not with all these people around. The room felt crowded, no oxygen left to breathe, and Gimli’s eyes were trailed on him from the opposite corner.

“I-“ Aragorn said and shot to his feet, so abruptly that the hobbits flinched. He turned on the spot, his ocean eyes in a turmoil, shimmering with unshed tears, met Legolas’ for a fraction, a silent plea of _come after me, I need you, I am desperate and forsaken_ , and then he left. The door banged shut and something heavier than dread coated Legolas’ skin, a terror older than the world itself. Vile and writhing along in his veins. As though Gorthaur pervaded this very room with his malevolent magic. Legolas resisted the urge to shiver and got up. Shoved down his own terror in favour of tending to Aragorn’s. It was his burden and privilege.

“I should go and apologize,” Pippin muttered.

“No,” Legolas snapped, his head whipping around to meet the hobbit’s pallid face. Belatedly, Legolas realized he was snarling, fists clenched at his sides. Pippin shrank back against Gandalf’s leg. He had no idea of the scope of Aragorn’s fears. His head was still filled with the idle merry-making of the shire, concerns that busied themselves with the next meal alone. All promises of bravery and will to fight meant nothing to Legolas when Pippin was so clearly ignorant of what they faced. Not just some evil guy with a hunger for power. A madman. A half-god. A tidal wave that would swallow them all, never to resurface, in an endless Dark Age that meant slavery and decay. “You have done enough.”

“But-“

Gandalf stepped in: “He is right, Peregrin Took. You cannot know what you have done. The best you can do now is to leave the aftermath to those who know better. Legolas, if you please.” The wizard gave a sad smile and pointed to the door. Pippin bowed his head.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Legolas sighed and with the air out of his mouth, his fury evaporated. A child, foolish, impulsive, yes. But not with evil intent.

“I will let him know,” he said, and then lunged for the door, propelled forward by his lingering anxiety over Aragorn’s state of mind. Every conversation they had had about the dark lord in which Aragorn had professed his insecurities replayed in Legolas’s head. Sometimes under tears, sometimes with fury unstoppable, sometimes with no emotion at all.

_He will be my downfall, my first and last test, and he will prove the weakness of my line to be universal_ , Aragorn would say and his hand would tighten around the blade he sharpened in the light of the fading embers, too close to cutting open his skin.

_He will take me, and he will torture me, and then I will betray you and all those I love_ , Aragorn would say when his insomnia had him up deep into the night, when all others were asleep but Legolas who had no need for it on most days.

_He will steal you away from under my nose and hand you to the orcs to feast on_ , Aragorn would say as his fears denied him yet another meal.

Nothing Legolas said or did managed to dispel these visions of terror and he was reduced to holding Aragorn through the night and kissing away his tears and he felt utterly useless for it. There was but one medicine Aragorn would take to, and Legolas meant to apply it.

When he stepped out into a star-littered night, Aragorn sat on the topmost stair that led to the hall they slept in, shoulders hunched and his head in his hands. His elvish hearing allowed Legolas to pick up on the sobs that were otherwise too faint to penetrate the deep quiet of the hour which was suffused only by the snoring of horses. The smell of hay clung to every corner of Edoras and Legolas took a deep whiff of it. It was nothing like home, mossy tree trunks and fresh grass, deep thickets and dead leaves, and yet it did wonders to his roughened nerve ends.

Legolas cocked his head, looked at the shaking form of one he held so dear and mused, not for the first time, why they had to be burdened with this fate. Had he not grown up on tales of the Valar and their great host? On how they had united and marched against Angband in a Great War that had claimed Morgoth’s freedom forever? Where were they now? No use in dwelling on it, a habit Thranduil used to scold him for. Even though he harboured the same doubts. But no. Tonight was for other concerns. 

Legolas lowered himself behind Aragorn and wrapped his arms around him, drew him to his chest. The scent of hay was overridden by Aragorn’s, a mixture of sweat and wilderness that had Legolas’ chest expand as though it fit more air, now that they were close again. Aragorn sacked against him, still in constant shakes from the tears that pushed so violently through to the surface.

“Do you remember when you were younger?” Legolas asked with half a smile. A vision of Strider in his mind with his quick limbs and hungry eyes, always on the next thing, running, fighting, shouting, asking questions, until he was utterly drained. “And you had these nightmares about your father?”

“Yes,” came the muffled reply, and Legolas let his forehead fall to Aragorn’s hair, fingers entwining with his friend’s. The ring of Barahir dug into his skin, a constant reminder of the precarious game they played. With a careful voice, Legolas sang, the softest tune he could manage. A lullaby, sweet and whimsical. Like he had sung fourty years prior under a more peaceful moon, a young man in his arms who had fewer lines carved into his forehead. 

It was a nonsensical tale of a young elf who stumbled into a magical meadow where the flowers waltzed and the stars came down from the sky, pearly and full of mirth. They joined the flowers, merged with them to create a new species and the boy swayed amongst their midst, transfixed, transformed. He became one of them, a bright red-tinged star that was well visible on a cloudless night and the Sindar named him Auth – war. For over his fate, his father declared war upon a neighbouring kingdom, accused them of kidnapping and such. Many died in those long battles and above it all, the boy resigned himself to eternity, weeping for his home.

It was an ancient song, naught but a story, one Thranduil had first heard in Melian’s hell when the princess Luthien had been but a small baby. As Legolas let his voice rise and fall with the tune, Aragorn’s shudders receded and he hummed along under his breath, the notes cracking. A sign of calm, nonetheless. They had weathered the panic.

“You need not be afraid,” Legolas said and bent to kiss the back of Aragorn’s neck, long after the last word of the lullaby had faded into the depths of the night. A horse neighed close by, and Gimli’s snores were audible as they leaked from underneath the wooden door. “I’m here to protect you, you know that’s why I came along. He cannot touch you.”

“I know, and I thank you for it," Aragorn said, paused. Went on with a tremble in his voice. "But you cannot hope to stand up against his raw power. I feel childish to have reacted as such, but I saw him. Looked into his eyes and found that there was nothing there but poison. He told me that he would let my worst nightmares come true. He would kill everyone. Showed me how he meant to do it. Showed me your head on a spear. You were… dead.” Aragorn shook his head.

“But I am not. I am here, by your side, as I will always be.” Legolas pressed his cheek to Aragorn’s shoulder and let his thumb stroke over whatever skin of Aragorn’s hand he could reach. Still not enough. He had never come face to face with Sauron, but he knew the stories down to their last gory details, had seen what his presence in Dol Guldur had done to the Greenwood. Death, wherever he treaded. Aragorn was right to be scared, and that was the problem. It was infectious and with Legolas himself walking a tightrope, it became harder and harder to convince both Aragorn and himself that they would come out of this, and alive. The bitter truth was that he was scared too. Scared for his friends, scared for his ada and what remained of the Greenwood. Scared for the man in his arms whom he loved so fiercely and forever. How could Legolas be enough, how could he live up to this threat and help Aragorn through it if he could even survive long enough that such questions gained relevance.

“I will always stay by your side,” he repeated more to quell his own nervous energy than anything else.

“I cannot-“ Aragorn’s voice broke, and he sighed before trying once more. “I cannot even hope to give you that.” Legolas’ heart stuttered. Not this again. Not here, not now, not on the precipice of doom. They always seemed to emerge in this dead end, from every conversation they had, no matter its topic. He gritted his teeth and let go of Aragorn. Aragorn released him, head low, shoulders hunched even further. Instead of giving in to his urge to pace, Legolas settled himself next to Aragorn.

“I have angered you,” the ranger murmured. “Forgive me.”

Legolas knew he shouldn’t be. He should be able to glaze over this comment and take Aragorn back into his arms and see to his comforts. Put him back to bed because tomorrow, and each day after, would be hard-won. But Aragorn had brought it up. Again. And it ate away at Legolas, the notion bitter in the back of his throat.

“You know I value truthfulness,” he said and turned to look Aragorn in the eye. The were dark and blood-shot and studied Legolas with a startling intensity.

“So do I.” Aragorn took Legolas’ hand once more and raised it to his lips which were dry and hot as they grazed over the elf’s knuckles.

“Yes, you have angered me.”

“I cannot help my condition, I-“

“You know very well that is not the reason,” Legolas said. Elbereth, but how could this man make him feel so many things at once? Anger at his persistent nihilism, fear for his fragile years, adoration for the young boy Estel who had brightened up so many of Legolas’ days, hunger for the man who now sat before him with his sharp mind and his body shaped by wilderness and weather. It was infuriating. Legolas tore his gaze away and searched the nighty sky for Auth, found him bright and cheerful, bloody almost, among a cluster of stars like Elanor blossoms. “I am angry because you persist in bringing this matter up. You would have your mortality taint every waking moment we have instead of embracing the gift we have been given. There is no helping it, Aragorn. All we can do is to accept it and love each other anyway. Have I not made you enough promises?”

“You have.”

“What is it then? We cannot deal with all of this at once, meleth. Look at the state of this world. We might not even get to see the day you being a mortal turns on us,” Legolas said and slumped, exhausted beyond measure upon releasing these words. Why did he always have to be the strong one? He was afraid too. With all their lives at stake and Aragorn nearly perishing once already – not a moment Legolas liked to reflect upon – there was not much to hold onto. He tried to recall his father’s words upon his departure but came up short. There was nothing, except this.

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said. “I did not consider you might-“

Legolas brought his hands to Aragorn’s face then, cupped it gently. He wouldn’t hear another word of it. Talking got them nowhere so maybe actions would have to do.

“Stop, just…stop.” Legolas inched closer until their noses touched and a current of desire thrashed through him, had his head spin. He kissed Aragorn, leaving enough space for the ranger to move back, but Aragorn seized Legolas by the front of his tunic and they crashed together. Fit as though made for each other, and Legolas lost himself in the simplicity of their mouths moving together, Aragorn’s heat spilling over, coarse hands that found his neck. They had perfected this dance a long time ago. It was mindless, the way Aragorn’s lips parted. Easy, the way Legolas climbed onto his lap. A glimpse of victory, as their tongues slid against each other, accompanied by soft moans and unspoken confessions. It had been too long.

Too long with out privacy, too long in fear for each other. Legolas tried to dial down his body’s reactions which were violent and had him struggle for breath, but then Aragorn bit down on his lip and, Eru, but he would never get used to that. His cheeks were aflame. His heart stampeded louder than the Uruk-Hai before the wall of Helm’s Deep. They kissed and held each other and slept not. It was but a trickle of comfort into the deep abyss of their looming fears, but it was so desperately needed anyway.

“Legolas,” Aragorn said when their lips were raw and their lungs deflated and all that was left was to hold on. “My love, you are so much. Strong and beautiful and full of starlight. How do I deserve you?”

“You simply do,” Legolas said. Aragorn chuckled. A rooster cried out from somewhere below and the first rays on sunshine broke out over the distant peaks of the Misty Mountains. Another day, hard-won.


End file.
